The welcome ceremony ended fast. Everyone filed into the main hall of Winterfell's keep.
The mood was a little strange.
The second they arrived, Robert grabbed Lord Eddard and dragged him straight down to the crypts to see the woman he'd been obsessing over for sixteen years.
His first love, probably.
The queen's face went tight the instant she heard it.
"We've been riding hard all morning. It's cold and we're tired," she said—not loud, but loud enough for the whole room to hear.
"Just got here and you're already rushing off to stare at a corpse."
Under the king's cold glare she stormed off with her twin brother in tow.
Joffrey blinked.
He suddenly noticed that with all the adults busy with their own business, he had somehow become the royal family's official stand-in.
Because when the sky falls, the tallest guy holds it up.
And he was a hell of a lot taller than Tyrion.
No time to waste.
Joffrey signaled the servants to bring out the gifts he'd prepared.
For eldest son Robb it was the wolf-head hand-and-a-half sword.
The second the blade left the sheath Robb couldn't look away.
"This… I'm not even old enough to wear a sword yet."
The boy said it, but his hand was already locked around the hilt while the other stroked the steel like it was a lover.
He shot a hopeful look at his mother, Catelyn Tully.
"What's the problem?" Joffrey gave an easy grin, zero malice showing. "I'm two years younger than you and I already have my own blade."
With the lord gone, the decision fell to Catelyn. Her eyes flicked back and forth before she gave the tiniest nod.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Robb said, looking like he'd been pardoned. He clearly couldn't wait to find somewhere to swing it.
For Sansa, Joffrey had ordered a harp from King's Landing, the body carved with intricate winter roses.
The red-haired, blue-eyed girl took it with a delighted gasp, fingers brushing the strings.
She stole a quick glance at him, cheeks flushing pink, whispered her thanks, and looked down again, shy.
"Face really does match the heart," Joffrey thought to himself.
He did look damn good today—Cersei had dragged him off this morning and dressed him like a prince. Right now he probably looked like Legolas who'd wandered onto the wrong set.
The rest of the Stark kids got something too: an illustrated copy of The Seven Kingdoms' Heroines, a wooden knight figurine with movable armor that could be taken on and off, and a direwolf plush sewn from thick gray-black wool.
Lady Catelyn stood beside them thanking him for each one. The tight line of her mouth softened a fraction.
But the caution in her eyes never quite disappeared.
Of course, if Joffrey had his way he would have gifted the other three a sewing needle, a wheelchair, and a nutcracker instead.
That would have been perfect.
On the surface, though, every gift looked thoughtful—perfectly matched to age and gender, even quietly hitting each child's personal tastes.
The kids were thrilled.
In no time Joffrey was laughing and joking with them like they'd known each other for years.
As for the bastard with the special surname…
"Jon what? Snow what?"
"Never heard of him."
Under one very thick, very convenient wall, Joffrey had zero reason—and zero excuse—to give the boy anything. That would have looked way too deliberate.
After horsing around with the little wolves for a while, evening finally arrived.
Winterfell's great hall threw a proper welcome feast.
Long tables groaned under mountains of food.
Whole roasted suckling pigs with crackling golden skin, fat sausages hissing in their own grease, huge chunks of peppered mutton and boiled carrots.
Honey-glazed chickens stuffed with apples, roasted onions swimming in gravy, endless baskets of bread, and rivers of ale and summer red.
Joffrey might have been only twelve, but with a drunk for a father he knew how to work a room. He kept raising his cup to the people around him.
"Little Joff, pour him another!"
The king wedged his massive body into the high seat. His booming voice shook dust off the rafters.
Robb, sitting right beside him, jumped at the roar and broke out in a cold sweat.
The boy had clearly never seen anything like this, but youthful pride and alcohol kicked in.
Plus Joffrey kept feeding him drinks, so this was already the second time Robb had blacked out.
"Listen, brother…" Robb slurred, still stubbornly lifting his horn cup and draining it.
He threw a heavy arm around Joffrey's shoulders, breath thick with wine.
"Your swordsmanship… isn't it taught by the Kingslayer?"
"Tomorrow… hic… tomorrow we gotta spar for real…"
"Robb! Watch your tongue!" Lady Catelyn finally snapped from the side.
Even Lord Eddard muttered a rebuke.
"I only allowed you one cup. I stepped out for a moment to speak with your uncle Benjen, and now look at you."
Robb wasn't worried about the coming lecture—he couldn't hear a word of it anymore.
Before anyone could say more, he slid right off the bench and collapsed under the table, dead to the world.
Good-natured laughter rolled across the hall.
Robert leaned back in his chair, belly shaking with every chuckle.
"Wine is the old hero—makes a man bolder the more he drinks."
"At his age I was already chasing wine and women nonstop. Leave the boys alone. Come on, Ned—drink!"
After the small commotion Joffrey helped the servants haul the unlucky bastard out of the hall.
When he sat back down he swirled his cup lazily between his fingers.
Thanks to [Bottoms Up], he could have kept drinking all night and his head would still be perfectly clear.
After putting away a few more northern lords who came to test him, the looks in the hall shifted from curiosity to outright amazement.
Soon even more men—some stubborn, some wanting to make friends—crowded around with full cups.
Joffrey was bored anyway, so he took every challenge, using the moment to test exactly how far the skill could go.
One round. Two. Three…
During a brief break between drinks he glanced at the system he hadn't checked in a while.
[Heaven's Will Points: 63/99]
Sixty-three?
He distinctly remembered it had been in the thirties last time he looked.
At first Joffrey thought he was seeing things.
But when a burly Manderly man—famous for how much he could put away—staggered off red-faced and started puking in the corner…
[Heaven's Will Points +3]
Oh.
It clicked.
"Red-faced" literally meant drinking until your face turned red.
Joffrey lifted his eyes and swept the noisy, crowded hall.
The smell of roasted meat and warm alcohol hung in the air like fog.
Robert was lost in old memories with Eddard.
Cersei sat alone, beautiful and icy.
Tyrion had disappeared—probably already off somewhere having a quiet word with someone.
Joffrey smiled faintly and raised his cup.
"To the North!"
"To the king!!"
"To this endless long summer!!!"
Cups crashed together again. In the corner of Joffrey's eye, otherworldly light flickered once more.